


I'm afraid of my depression

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Family, Fear, Fear of Death, Gay, I cried while writing this, I don't want my family to hate me, Mom - Freeform, Siblings, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 09:21:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14808590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: I had to get it out, but this is just something about me wanting to come out to my family. If I come out once, I'll have to come out again. And again.





	I'm afraid of my depression

My depression keeps me from telling my mother that I’m a gay transgender. I don’t care what my father thinks, because I feel no emotional attachment to him. I don’t want my mother to hate me. If she tells me that she hates me, I’ll have to kill myself. I won’t be able to cope if I hear her say “I hate you”.

I don’t want my oldest brother to look at me in disgust or tell me how wrong and gross I am. I’m afraid that my other older brother will never look at or talk to me again, and that he will never tell his children I ever existed. I don’t want my older sister to tell me over and over things that she’s read online about trans people and how hard they have it, and I don’t want to hear her tell me about all of her trans friends everyday. My twin doesn’t care, but I don’t think that she fully understands what I’m going through. I’m tired of my younger sister thinking that she’s transgender; she doesn’t have gender dysphoria, or depression, or the crippling need to kill yourself everyday and have to fight your thoughts all by yourself so that you don’t. I don’t want her to think that she can talk to me about transgender problems. I don’t want to confuse my baby brother. I don’t want to see the look on his face judging me and saying “but you’re a girl”, or “but “gay” is a bad word”.

I don’t want to tell my mom that I’m transgender, because I don’t want to be a disappointment. I don’t want to depress her by cutting my hair. I don’t want to depress her by dressing more like a man. I don’t want to depress her by changing my name and erasing the fact that I was ever female.

But if I ever do tell her, then I don’t want to tell her that I’m gay. That I like men. Because that would make me straight, wouldn’t it? If I tell her that I like guys, she won’t question why. But if I transition into a man and tell her that I like men, then she’ll have a gay son. And that is unacceptable. Trannies are weird. They’re gross. They’re mentally wrong. They’re diseased. They’re just going through a faze.

My faze just never ended.

If I tell my dad, then I can live with him screaming at me and calling me all the dirty words I’ve ever heard. We’ve done it before. We’ve told eachother that we hate each other before. I’ve told him to kill himself and he’s told me to kill myself. It’s no big deal. I can just forget about him and move on.

But I won’t ever be able to live seeing my mom cry. “You’re so beautiful,” she says. “I’m so glad I didn’t have a bunch of fuglies,” she says. “Oh, look at my beautiful girls,” she says. I want to be called “handsome”, though. I want her to introduce me to people as her son. I want her to know that I would beat anyone up for her, and that I can do all sorts of work so that she can sit and rest. I want her to hug me and pat my back, and to pet my head like she loves me, and like she’s proud of her son.

I’m afraid of making her cry. If she cries, then that means that it’s unacceptable. That means that I’ve ruined her life. She carried me for eight months and gave birth to me. She could have aborted us, but she didn’t. She gave birth to me and my twin. She used to dress us in matching clothes. If I tell her that I’m transgender, she’ll never get to see me wear makeup, or wear a dress, or get pregnant, or match clothes with my twin ever again.

I’m afraid that she’ll get drunk and cry all night with pictures of us kids around her. I fear that I’ll tell her and she’ll just ignore me, but cry herself to sleep later the night.

I’m afraid to tell her that I’m transgender, because then I’ll have to come out again and tell her that I’m gay. But I know that if I don’t tell her, I’ll kill myself.

I called her on the phone late one night, while I was walking the streets crying so hard that I thought I may pass out. I told her that I didn’t feel like I was in the right body. I told her that I felt wrong. I told her that I didn’t want her to hate me. I told her that over and over- “I just don’t want you to hate me.” But I knew that I was going to walk in front of a car that night. Or lay in the road and not get back up. Or walk endlessly until I didn’t know where home was anymore. I said, “If you tell me that you hate me, then I’m not coming home tonight. I just need you to tell me that you love me. Just tell me you love me.”

She said, “Brandi, I can’t change who you are. You are who you are. Now come home.”

I cried for a long time on my dying cell phone. Did that mean that I can’t change the fact that I was born a woman? That I was just “confused”? Or did it mean that she would accept me as what I told her I was?

I told her “okay” and walked back home. But the next day, we didn’t talk about it. She bought me a new pair of women’s jeans and I sat all alone in the living room.

Does she really accept me? If I say the words “I’m transgender” to her, like I tried doing that night but couldn’t, will she still love me?

I don’t want to see her look at me like I’m a monster. If she can love me for who I am, then I won’t care what my siblings think. I can live with them hating me, because I can leave.

I’m afraid that if I do tell my mother and she accepts me, that I may still run away to die.

I’m afraid that my depression will take me even when I don’t want to go.

I’m afraid that if I tell my family I need to see a therapist, that I’m depressed and that I need medicine, then they will shake their heads and tell me, “It’s just a faze.”


End file.
